


provide

by corkhighway



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Demonic instincts, Jealousy, M/M, Male Lactation, Milk, Protective Dante, pining vergil, thirsty nero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23438779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corkhighway/pseuds/corkhighway
Summary: Everything that Mundus had stolen from him, the Qliphoth had returned.Everything.Vergil stared at himself in the mirror...and frowned.Everything, except for one.
Relationships: Dante/Nero (Devil May Cry), Vergil/Nero (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 149





	provide

**Author's Note:**

> spent 2 hours in a useless meeting thinking about nothing but dante's tits and this is the result

Vergil was not a man afraid of consequences.

There was a price to be paid for power. He’d known that, accepted it. Regret was a hallmark of the weak, and its appearance was only a sign of a lack of ambition. He’d never cared who he’d hurt. And even now, some twenty years and twenty thousand stolen human lives later, a city sucked dry to buy him back the glory he’d lost to youth’s foolish mistakes, Vergil still did not care. 

No, regret was not a friend to him. 

And yet, as Vergil stared at the reflection of his naked body in the ornate, full-length antique mirror hung against the wall in the personal room Dante had so graciously provided him, regret still had the  _ gall _ to crawl up behind him and slip a cold-fingered hand right around his throat.

It had no business being there. His body was immaculate, with the smoothness of youth and the radiant glow of health. He was as pale as he had ever been, but without blemish, without crack, without fault. There was no better skincare routine than bathing in the blood of thousands, it seemed.

Perfect musculature. Perfect posture. Perfect  _ strength. _ Everything that Mundus had stolen from him, the Qliphoth had returned. 

Everything.

Vergil stared at himself in the mirror...and frowned.

Everything, except for one.

The demonic equivalent of ‘maturation’ was unpredictable at best and a volatile nightmare at worst, and it was so much more often the latter than the former.

Nero might have been spared much of the slow, painful slog Vergil and Dante had gone through, by virtue of having Dante as a mentor, but no amount of forewarning could prepare him for what came after triggering for the first time. The wave of bloodlust was insatiable, the urge to dominate was overwhelming, and the drain of devil power on human blood left one constantly exhausted.

In a word,  _ puberty. _ And it was hell. Vergil did not envy his son, but he had no sympathy for him either: On top of the Qliphoth, Nero’s newly-awakened demon had given Vergil a beatdown the likes of which he would not soon forget. It was still difficult not to flinch, sometimes, seeing those spectral wing-fists lazily clasped around Nero’s shoulders. The boy could do with a little suffering.

And suffer he had. By the time they’d returned, Dante and Vergil fighting their way back to the human world through seven layers of damnation, Nero had been right in the thick of it. Nico, the human woman he’d seen with Nero during his time as V, had helpfully informed them that she’d “dropped his cranky ass off in a field, and told him not to come back ‘til he learned him some chill.”

This apparently meant that she’d left him to his own devices in the abandoned Redgrave, still rife with demons, to work off the infernal temper that was the icing on the metaphorical cake. He’d been there some two weeks already when they returned, and Nico claimed that she'd still seen demons getting tossed through the air when she’d driven by to check on him that morning.

“Well,” Dante had said, grinning at her through his long, unkempt hair, face still dirty and unshaven. “Won’t do to leave the kid unsupervised. Let’s go get him.”

Dante’s care for the boy was obvious, far more so than the man was likely comfortable with. He met Nero strike for strike when they finally cornered the boy in an abandoned apartment building, laughing at every wild, furious swing and testing the reach of his wing-claws even as Vergil kept to a more defensible distance. 

When Nero at last calmed enough to regain his human form, panting and shaking and gasping from the exertion of maintaining his trigger for so long, it was Dante who he looked to first. It was Dante who he cursed for abandoning him, Dante he demanded answers from, Dante he swore he’d never forgive.

It was Dante, who Nero cared enough about to feel betrayed by. 

But Nero was still a human soul beneath the newly-formed demon flesh that thrummed below his skin, and forgiveness came before the van’s wheels had even skidded to a stop back in front of Devil May Cry. Dante’s hand on Nero’s shoulder, Nero’s grudgingly good-natured jab in response to a teasing poke, a shared snicker over Nico’s driving.

Familiarity was a language between them, and Vergil did not speak it. It was Dante, who Nero cared enough to forgive, because it was Dante who Nero knew enough to care.

Perhaps that was why it was Dante who Nero chose, in the end.

What followed was to be expected. 

A demon drained of energy during the painful, demanding process of its growth would naturally seek to replenish its supply. It would take careful note of its surroundings, keeping its eye out for stronger demons nearby, identifying those who could be potential providers.

Vergil, and to some lesser degree Dante as well, had been able to sate such needs with substitutes. Dante had confided to him in hell of his nights spent chewing demon corpses, sinking his teeth in foul brimstone-smelling flesh and cracking bones for nutrient-rich marrow. Vergil had found a source to slate his thirst in human blood, as he had confided in turn. Each regarded the other’s method as revoltingly unpalatable, but both had survived well enough on it.

They had flourished, even, growing in maturity to revel in what had been denied to them in their youth. Both of them were so saturated with power now that even their demon forms had been forced to evolve in order to wield their potential in its entirety.

Such abundance could not go unnoticed by a demon still coming into its own, and Vergil often found himself aware of the feeling of Nero’s eyes on him as he went about his daily life in Dante’s office. He recognized the same eyes following his brother, as well: With two powerful beings so close in proximity, Nero had the benefit of options.

Nero would seek out one of them as a provider: That was a given. Vergil had understood that fact the moment they had found the boy, ravenous and frenzied and blood-maddened in the abandoned shell of what had once been Redgrave. Nero likely didn’t recognize it himself, the way he was...presenting, to them. His wings were displayed more often than not, flaunting the strength he already had, hinting at what he could become if provided with the chance. 

Nero had even come to them in the past week with dismembered demon parts in tow. Vergil’s demon had stirred when Nero had dumped the whole lot of them on the office’s sole desk, looking up from the book he’d been reading on the couch. The bloody, gory mess of it all had included trophies that his demon recognized from some of hell’s tougher brutes. 

Vergil had felt a fleeting flicker of interest, quickly extinguished. He had little care for the boy on his own.

Nero had offered some paltry excuse at Dante’s raised brow, something about wanting an appraisal or a lead to a dealer for quick cash. From his muted, unsettled movements, shifting on his feet and glancing at the door, Nero didn’t really understand why he’d felt compelled to do such a thing. Vergil had no qualms letting the boy stew in his own confused bewilderment, but Dante had grinned and humored him, leaning in to examine the goods. 

Vergil had noticed Dante doing that more often, too. Humoring Nero. Getting closer to him. Reaching out for him, touching him more, holding him longer.

The demon in him recognized the circling behavior, the closing in. It was only a matter of time before one made an offer, and the other accepted.

And so, Vergil was not surprised to step through the doors of Devil May Cry one evening to find his son sitting in his brother’s lap behind the desk. In a stark break in character, Dante didn’t even look up to greet Vergil, his eyes fixed downwards with one hand wrapped around Nero’s waist and the other buried in his hair, holding him close. Dante’s shirt was pushed up nearly to his collar, the boy’s face pressed tight to his chest.

Nero had found his provider.

Vergil often fancied himself a being above mere mortal status. 

Most of the pathetic human masses on this planet could not so much as draw his attention, and though there were those that could, they did not hold it for long. Human emotions such as compassion, kindness, and paternal feelings were just as foreign and unwelcome in his mind as regret: He would never stoop so low as to be affected by any of them.

Yes, Vergil very much liked to think that.

But the truth was as ugly as it was undeniable, much as he had tried to do so in his younger years. He had no energy left for it, now, and so was left no choice but to face stark reality. 

Vergil was a creature plagued by desires. He wanted power, to rise to a pedestal where none could ever hope to reach him. He wanted to defeat Dante, to finally hold complete and utter dominion over his twin. He wanted revenge, to strike back at all who had ever made him feel weak and helpless and alone.

And now, Vergil found that he had one more desire to add to that long list that guided his every move.

Vergil wanted Nero.

It was not a typical want for him, in the way he was used to. It was no all-consuming need that swept through his being, demanding its due like it did with the few unfortunate humans who’d managed to catch his eye. It was no blood-starved thirst, like the urge to conquer that pounded in his skull whenever he sensed the chance to compete with Dante. It wasn’t even particularly sexual, though Vergil admired the strength in his son’s powerful demonic form, enjoyed the ferocity in that ice-blue glare when it landed on him.

No, it was more...insidious. 

It slid beneath his skin as he watched Dante reach out to snag Nero’s arm as the boy passed by, crept between his ribs as his brother pulled Nero down to the couch with him, squeezed around his heart as Dante urged Nero’s face to his chest with a guiding hand on the back of his neck. Nero balked at the easy manhandling, throwing out a quip about mothering and lazy old men, but he still leaned in as Dante laughed, tugging the hem of Dante’s shirt up to get at what he wanted.

Vergil watched his son suckle from his brother, and felt a desire he could name:  _ Jealousy. _

Once, Vergil and his demon had been inseparable. Singular. An entity, together. They had been born together, lived together, been of one mind and one body and one will because they were  _ one being. _ There was no ‘him’ and ‘his demon.’ It was just ‘Vergil.’

Once, Vergil’s demon had not fought him, because it  _ was _ him.

And then, he had spliced them apart, separating one into two that were never meant to be on their own. 

Now, the lines were more clear. Now, he found he had to...reach out within him, to that piece of him. To what should be himself, but wasn’t. Not anymore, and perhaps, never again. Vergil liked to think he was healing, becoming whole again. Nothing but time would tell.

But until that time passed, he was forced to live as an entity apart from itself. And that meant, sometimes, Vergil had to  _ ask _ and not simply  _ do. _

Vergil spoke, inside his mind. The words were unfamiliar, unwieldy. He wasn’t used to this.  _ I want to produce milk. _

The reply was immediate.  _ WE HAVE NO NEED.  _

Perhaps it was true that he was healing. In his earliest days after being returned to himself, Vergil’s demon had often seen fit not to respond to him at all.  _ I’m aware. I want to produce it, for another. _

_ WHY? _

“That is the question, is it not,” Vergil mused aloud, studying his reflection in the mirror. Was this jealousy merely an old feeling given a new name? Was his desire for Nero nothing more than a placeholder as he once more coveted what his brother had? To the demon, he said,  _ It is for Nero. For my son. _

A deep rumble, in the back of his mind.  _ NO. NOT FOR HIM. _

_ He is maturing, _ Vergil argued, growing annoyed with...perhaps it was inappropriate to think of his demon as himself, now, but himself it was.  _ He needs milk. He needs a provider. _

Another deep rumble. The demon was growing annoyed with him too, it seemed.  _ HE HAS ONE. _

Vergil’s lip curled, a rueful twist. He was aware of that: It was precisely the issue.  _ I want to provide for him. _

Images flashed through his mind, unbidden. Nero, bizarrely small, standing at his feet and brandishing his sword. Nero, flying backwards, the stump of his lost arm clearly visible. Nero, facing him again, wielding metal that burned and stung at his side.

The demon’s memories, and the message was clear: It did not want to aid this enemy. 

Vergil’s frustration grew. He longed to command it, to order it to do as he pleased and have the matter settled. He yearned for older days, when his demon was not a creature capable of resisting him. One never knew what they had until they cut it out in a bid for survival and endless power.  _ He is my son. Our son. We should be the one providing for him. Not Dante. _

At the mention of his brother’s name, more images flashed through his mind. Fighting. Winning. Fighting. Losing. Fighting.  _ Pain. _ And red, red as bright as fire, red as bright as blood. Dante, firing his pistols, drawing the demon away from Nero. Nero, defended by Dante. Nero,  _ fed _ by Dante, strong arms wrapped around Nero’s head as he held the boy to his chest and urged him to drink.

Vergil’s demon recognized, innately, what Vergil himself refused to acknowledge. Dante had taken Nero under his wing, guarded him, soothed him, suckled him. In the mad, riotous haze of instincts that formed what demons took for rules, Dante had made a bid for Nero’s loyalty. And Nero, watching them both, weighing his options, judging their offers, had accepted.

Nero was, under the viciously unforgiving but brutally simple law of Hell,  _ Dante’s. _

And Vergil’s demon  _ hated _ Dante. 

_ WE WILL GIVE HIM NOTHING, _ it roared. 

Vergil at once reached the end of his patience, the pure detestable fact of Nero’s preference driving him over the edge. He snapped, his vision darkening, fury flooding his veins until he felt his blood sparking electric and his trigger humming beneath the surface of his skin. His demon’s consciousness might be separate from his, but its power was his own.  _ This is not your choice! _

In his mind, his demon charged him, massive limbs and gnashing teeth and fists and claws and everything it had to its name.

Vergil met it with all he had to his own.

He did not know how much time passed before he returned to reality, came back to the physical world, ejected from the all-consuming battle that had occurred only within the confines of his mind. 

He had succeeded in conquering his beast, crushing it beneath his mental heel and demanding its obedience. His will was supreme once more, at least for the time, and his demon could no longer deny him.

Vergil found himself bent over the sink, one hand pressed to the porcelain hard enough that it had cracked beneath his strength, the other cinched tight on the flesh of his chest. He had cupped his fingers around one of his nipples, squeezing the smooth plane of muscle beneath it hard enough to bruise, urging what lay dormant beneath to rise and fulfill its purpose. 

Vergil stared at himself in the mirror, naked, hunched over, clenching his own flat breast in his hand, watching, waiting. 

Time moved. Seconds passed. A minute, spent only watching the mirror in some bizarre imitation of fondling himself, trying to draw out what he could almost  _ feel _ just beneath the surface.

Two minutes. Three.

Four.

Five, and for all he wanted and needed and ached, his fingers were dry, bereft of so much as a single drop.

Frustration rose anew within him, dulled by confusion. He sensed his demon’s surrender echoing in the halls of his mind, still felt its subjugation beneath his fist. He had  _ won. _

Vergil struck at the beast in his mind once more, slashing at its many eyes, blinding it, tormenting it. He couldn’t kill it any more than he could kill his own humanity, but he could make it suffer.  _ Give in! Yield to me!  _

His demon roared again, clawing at him, struggling and failing to break free. It screamed its denial, but its voice was weak in his mind, without the rebellious will it had wielded before.

_ Produce! _ Vergil ordered it, baring his teeth, the fine porcelain of the sink crumbling to dust in his grip. 

_ WE WILL NOT!  _ The beast cried out, its guttural growl thick with fury and pain and...and something else, something odd. Vergil’s unfamiliarity with the tone was enough to make him pause, to step back and address his demon once more.

_ Why? _ Vergil demanded of it.  _ Why not? _

_ WE WILL GIVE HIM NOTHING. _ Its voice in his head, spiteful but subdued, almost...almost.... 

It was the same ultimatum it had given him before, and it was with a sudden clarity that Vergil saw what it meant, saw past its pride and its anger and straight to the heart of its words.

His demon, wounded and weakened in the corner of his mind, refusing to truly answer him, almost as if…almost like it was...

Ashamed.

He’d kept his distance when they’d first gone to calm Nero from his temper. He hadn’t felt swayed by Nero’s displays, his preening, his flaunting. His bloody array of trophies had garnered only passing interest from Vergil’s demon. He’d felt nothing watching Dante and Nero close in on each other, saw no need to dive between them and lay his own claim, felt no urge to seize Nero for himself. He’d felt nothing, until he felt  _ jealousy, _ an emotion that was human to its core. 

He’d thought Nero was assessing both of them, making a choice between them, but there was no choice to be made. Vergil had never been an option. Vergil could never have been a provider.

_ You can’t make it, _ Vergil told it. There was no answer, but there didn’t need to be: The truth was shared between them.  _ You...I...cannot make it. _

Everything Mundus had stolen from him, the Qliphoth had returned.

Everything, except for one.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> mundus: here is my new prisoner, vergil. i'm gonna turn him into my best soldier.
> 
> demon: yeah okay
> 
> mundus: you gotta torture him
> 
> demon: gotcha
> 
> mundus: you gotta traumatize him. really fuck him up
> 
> demon: i hear you
> 
> mundus: you gotta steal his tits
> 
> demon: 
> 
> mundus:
> 
> demon:


End file.
